Shattered Tales
by WindSurfBabe
Summary: A collection of one-shots and random short pieces inspired by the Lord of the Rings in general and Glorfindel in particular.
1. A Golden Light

Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognize.

This little piece was written for netprincess, as a homage to our common favourite character.

* * *

- A Golden Light -

Smoke… Smoke rose to the sky, swirling between the tall, white towers. It could be seen from afar, from beyond the circle of mountains that had sheltered the city for so long. Now, those stone ramparts were useless: jealousy and malice had opened the gates, and let evil in.

Flames licked the steps, raced up the walls, their roars covering the screams of fear and anguish that echoed through the streets and down the Halls. Where once shone white marble and silver, they left their dark stain; where once stood a proud city was slaughter and chaos, and unnumbered tears of fear. Green trees withered in the heat, banners burned on their spires. The horns that should have sounded for celebration rang in alarm, gathering the few armed warriors towards a desperate fight.

Too long had the city remained safely hidden, so long that the shadows of Angband had grown distant; for many, no more than a frightening legend. But the evil did not forget Gondolin; restlessly it had sought to find it, to break it and bend to its will the last of the Noldor. And on Midsummer day, its goal was finally at hand.

The Noldor fought back, armed in haste and scattered; swords and armours that had been polished for a feast shone red with blood, magnificent tunics covering deadly wounds. For each elf that fell, five died from the armies of Morgoth; but still the enemy kept coming. Swarming, dark masses poured through the open gates, crashing against the shields of the Noldor: orcs, wargs, and any monster that evil had been able to conjure. Dark walls rose before the warriors, walls that never fell, and that grew stronger with each passing minute. Hands grew tired, resolves weakened, hearts broke as friends and kin died side by side.

There perished Ecthelion, lord of the Fountain, as he slew Morgoth's mightiest captain. They fell, entangled together in flame, deep into the fountain's cold waters. There died Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower. High above the city, his home burning down below, he fought against a Balrog to protect the escape of the last survivors, and gave his life to ensure their success.

Finally the screams died down, the winds extinguished the fires that consumed what was left of the splendour of Gondolin. Morgoth's armies marched out of the fallen city, abandoning it to Time that would heal the ground and wash away the memories of the carnage. Armours would rust in the rain; plants would grow, winding through the ruins, and no voice would trouble the air again. The very way to the city would be forgotten, and the silent reminder of treachery forever lost behind the mountains.

Yet one would remember.

He was there when Gondolin was taken; he fought and died that day, and dwelt in the dimness of Mandos' Halls. For all his courage and sacrifice, rest had been refused to him, and he had been sent to tread the earth where he had been slain once again. He was reborn, with the task to see the battle against evil to its end. To face another war, and shed blood once again for a hopeless cause. For darkness was yet again rising in the East, its endless greed to dominate all life driving its armies. And to fight darkness, one needs light.

A golden light.

Glorfindel.

* * *

A.N.: This is my take on the fate of Glorfindel, whom Tolkien said to have been reborn after his death in Gondolin. I wondered whether he had gone back willingly, or whether he had been torn from his well-deserved rest because his help was needed back on Middle-earth. It is possible that he returned of his own free will – but in my opinion, he _could_ have been told to sail back, and accepted reluctantly, although he would've preferred to leave the things of the living to the living…


	2. Uninvited

- Uninvited -

Glorfindel straightened his back and, obeying the subtle signal, his steed stopped. He reached out to pull the hood from his face. They remained still, and only the movements of its ears betrayed the animal's curiosity.

The fog had risen from the valley and, in engulfing the path in its soft paleness, had drowned out the sounds of rustling leaves and ordinary forest life. The air was still and full of moisture, the tiny droplets suspended as if by some greater will. They clung to Glorfindel's cloak and to his hair; silver on gold.

And yet the silence was alive, full of expectation and wariness. Glorfindel's senses had told him that the alarm had been raised a few hours ago; but so far the invisible guards of the valley had not made their presence known. Something creaked, and Glorfindel's trained ears recognized a bowstring. He smiled; he had not been mistaken. They were indeed cautious of him, their arrows ready to fly into the heart of a stranger venturing too far away from the more travelled roads. Unwelcome and uninvited was he; unexpected on a secret path.

And well-hidden it was indeed: only the horse's steps had betrayed the gentle slope downwards; but soon it had become steeper… and narrower. Glorfindel had felt rather than seen the abyss to his right, sensed the immensity of the space behind the cloak of fog. He had found the valley, at last, after a long journey, over sea and land and through death itself.

"I come in peace," he called out; his voice shattering the eerie silence like a scream. Whispers came echoing back to him; the fog served no master, and betrayed both him and his watchers.

"Your hands… Show them!" came the slightly muffled reply.

Glorfindel obeyed, unclenching his fingers from the hilt of the sword where they had snaked by instinct.

"I will do what you ask," he added. "I am no threat to you."

The fog swirled and parted, and two elves stepped onto the path: one older and one young, from what Glorfindel could see. A warden in training and his master… The master still held an arrow nocked, and the young warden eyed Glorfindel, then circled him to make sure he concealed no more weapons. Finally he nodded, and his comrade lowered the bow before sliding the arrow back into the quiver.

"One is never too cautious," stated the archer simply for all apology.

"True," Glorfindel agreed. He said not that they were little threat to him, unless reinforcements still awaited in the canopies above.

"I am Maeglad. This is Nendir." The older warden bowed slightly, his stance still wary. He was expecting a name in return.

"I am Glorfindel…"

The words, once so ordinary, almost drew the rest of the sentence from his lips. But that title was no more; it had disappeared along with the House. Glorfindel sighed.

"…Just Glorfindel. I come to seek Master Elrond."

Maeglad nodded. "We shall take you to him, my Lord." He motioned to his comrade, who went to show the way.

As they walked, Glorfindel caught the curious glances to his sword, and to the package where lay his armour. It was new, as the blade, which had been forged in the fires of Valinor to replace the one that been melted away by the heat of a different flame.

"Many come to seek Master Elrond's wisdom and help," started Maeglad. "His wisdom is of great renown."

Glorfindel nodded; he stared to the white emptiness of the abyss, and wondered yet again what his mission really was. Despite all he had seen and heard these last days, still he questioned his presence here; and still his soul ached for the rest he had but tasted.

He smiled bitterly. "I seek no advice."

Maeglad watched him for a moment. "Then may you find peace, my Lord," he said quietly. "Welcome to Imladris."


	3. Of Courage And Long Hair

A Christmas gift for openmeadow.

* * *

- Of Courage And Long Hair -

They were going to break the doors. The wood cracked ominously under yet another impact of an improvised battering ram; it shook on its hinges, but held on. However, neither Caladwen or any of the other refugees huddling together in the small shack harbored any hope that it should last. Outside, the orcs' grunts and chanting surrounded the small house, as the monsters cheered on their comrades to give them access to their victims – at last.

Caladwen sobbed in horror when she understood what it meant: Father, Brethil and the other defenders had fallen. Her brother, whom she had admired and adored since her birth, the one who had played with her and soothed her childhood fears, was dead. And the orcs rejoiced, anticipating yet another feast. The village was lost…

The attack had come unexpected; no scout had warned them, no hunters' party sent by Lord Elrond from the valley nearby had come to protect them. They had been left to fend for themselves, and had failed, adults and children alike slain by orcs' blades as the attackers rampaged through the settlement. Those who had picked up a weapon had been killed, and those who had fled had found themselves herded back to the heart of the village – and the slaughter. Those who, like Caladwen, had frozen in blind fear upon hearing the cries of warning, had found a temporary refuge in a small house, barring the doors in an ultimate attempt for protection. Some time earlier they had still heard the screams of those left outside, screams that turned hoarse as their throats could not express their pain and horror anymore. Some had managed to reach the house, scraping their nails on the wood as the orcs slaughtered them on the doorstep. And then silence had fallen, punctuated by the crashes of the ram on the door.

Another blow, and one of the hinges gave in. Nails torn from the wood went flying across the room and Caladwen moaned in fear, her cry lost in the midst of the tears and wails of the other women. There were no men inside with her, no-one left to pick up a weapon for their defense. They were already dead, even though yet breathing – only time separated them from their sad fate.

Beside her Alassiel wept, her beautiful face marred with the blood of her beloved husband. Elenion had died defending her, the very last one to fall as he pushed them inside the shack and tried to close the doors on the orcs that followed them. An arrow had found him through the closing door, and he had crumbled. Now he lay in the middle of the house, arms and legs spread out at awkward angles – there was no pretending that he was asleep, no restful calm on his features twisted in pain. Only his blood oozed on the ground in crimson rivulets – a reminder of those whose bodies were left at the mercy of the orcs. How many red rivers ran through the village, now?

Caladwen did not want to think about them, but Brethil's smile as he had teased her earlier that day seemed stuck in her memory. He was gone now; they were all gone. The house delimited her little world of anguish and grief, and soon it would fall as well, reduced to a blade and a blow. Would she be the first to die? The third, the last? Would she see what was left of her friends slaughtered, her heart breaking at last before it was cut out from her chest?

She rose to her feet, oblivious to Alassiel's pleas and her desperate tugging on the hem of her dress, and went to pick up Elenion's sword from his cold, limp hand. Orcs slew those armed first; they killed them quickly, eliminating the threat – and though painful, her death would be fast. Caladwen smiled grimly. If her turn to go had come, she would go first, and not live to see the last of her loved ones killed off like animals, or worse – played with. She knew not how to fight; even to hold a weapon was a foreign sensation; but she had seen it done enough to pretend. Clutching the slippery handle with both hands, she raised it and waited.

The door gave in with a deafening crack and slammed on the ground. Orcs poured through the opening, yelping and grunting; their blades were raised in expectation of a resistance. Caladwen felt her knees give way beneath her but managed to stand, shaking, as they circled her. Their breath smelled of blood, their weapons were crude and enormous compared to her slender blade. A huge orc smiled as he raised his weapon above her head.

Caladwen closed her eyes.

The blow never came. Instead of the pain and the darkness, she heard the hiss of another blade cutting the air, and the clash of steel against steel somewhere above her head, so very near. Then someone shoved her out of the way, and she yelped in pain as she landed on her stomach in the middle of something warm and sticky.

Blood! Its sickening smell filled her nostrils and Caladwen scrambled away, slipping and sobbing. Her back touched the corner of the house, and she could finally see what was happening. The orcs were falling one by one, pressed by grey-cloaked elves, their blades no match to the skill of the warriors of Imladris. Slaughtered, just as they had slaughtered the villagers they died, piled one on another like animals. And in the midst of the carnage shone the sun itself.

His golden hair flying as he spun and blocked and slashed, his armor shining with blood, stood a warrior Caladwen had never seen. A step, another, a lethal blow – he danced with his blades, eyes half-closed as his body executed the long-practiced routine of killing. With a triumphant cry he lowered his sword, tricking the orc as it curved and slashed him open.

Victory was theirs. The refugees cheered and cried in joy, rising to their feet to thank their saviors, but Caladwen stood frozen in her corner. Indeed it was over – the danger, and the world as she had known it. Beauty and death… She had seen them in one day, and lost everything she had in the span of an hour: her family, and her heart.

"Are you injured?"

The voice was soft, cautious, and Caladwen blinked away from the corpses to face the speaker.

"No… No, my Lord." She attempted a curtsy, remembering what respect was due to those of his rank, but her legs gave way beneath her, and she would have crumbled piteously had he not caught her.

He nodded as he steadied her, relinquishing his hold of her waist. His eyes searched hers, and Caladwen felt deft fingers pry Elenion's sword from her numb fingers – she had not realized she had been holding it still.

"Give it back to Alassiel," she whispered. "It belongs – belonged – to her husband."

With those words came pain, the agony of survivor's solitude and guilt. And through the tears that flowed down her cheeks, she thought she saw an echo of that ache in his old, old eyes.

* * *

They had called it courage. Selflessness, even. Said that her bravery had drawn the attackers' attention, and gained precious seconds that had allowed the warriors to intervene.

Those words made her sick.

Those precious seconds had not saved Brethil or Father or Elenion, but spared her life instead when she had been calling for death. They had prolonged those instants she had been dreading, where she saw everyone she ever held dear killed and herself alone in the cold, wide world. Now she had a lifetime to dwell in that solitude, and question endlessly why she should be the one to survive.

Cheers and thanks rang false to her ears, hands that shook hers scorched her skin, and soon she learned to shy away from the other survivors and their thankful families.

They had called it modesty.

* * *

The pool was deep, the water icy – Caladwen could imagine the sensation of that biting cold on her skin and in her lungs, if only she found that _courage_… The wind that blew over the cliff seemed to nudge her forward, as though it understood her fear. Soaked clothes would weigh her down, and the silence would drown her last gasp. The pool would welcome her into her arms, drawing her deep into oblivion and calm.

"The pain will be excruciating," said a conversational voice behind her.

Caladwen spun around to see Glorfindel propped against a tree, watching the depths below with interest. She knew who he was now, her golden-haired dancer: the renowned Balrog Slayer, reborn after his glorious fall in Gondolin, and whose courage and selflessness were legendary. He looked up, and Caladwen found herself pinned down by his eyes.

"What? I… I was not…"

"I _know_ you were," he said quietly. "I know."

His careless façade slipped from his face, leaving bare a solemn, dark man. He walked over to the edge of the cliff, and small rocks rolled down into the abyss from under his boots. The wind whipped his hair into his face, but he did not seem to care.

"Death will stop the pain," he agreed, but his smile was bitter. "But death is not forever. Believe me. You could be reborn to this same agony you are fleeing from."

"I am not you," Caladwen muttered darkly. "I am no hero."

Glorfindel scoffed. "A hero? Tell me, what do you know of my tale?"

She scowled. "That you fought a Balrog above Gondolin in flames, to allow the last refugees to escape through a pass in the mountains."

"…And lost." Glorfindel completed.

"And lost," she agreed. And, feeling slighted in her right to deny any pretense at selflessness and sacrifice, added: "And died a glorious death."

His eyes turned cold. "There is no such thing," he snapped. "Courage, nobility, all this is play pretend as death grips us. All hearts bleed, Caladwen. All men fear." He sighed, his features softening once more. "And I, of all people, am no hero, for grief was what caused my end."

He spoke quietly, the howling wind carrying his words to Caladwen though she stood but a step away.

"I saw Ecthelion fall as he dragged Gothmog along into the fountain. My friend was dead… My brother. And I fought to find that death as well, hoping it would claim its due once again, as it had many a time that day. But it evaded me, and I lived. And as I fled the city, I knew that I would find no rest again, and no home to welcome me. That I could not overcome that grief. And then came the Balrog; a foe, a cause – and a means to reach my goal." Glorfindel smiled sadly. "Do you know I almost survived?" he said. "Almost… If not for my hair."

He reached to twirl a golden lock between his fingers. "I have not cut it since."

Caladwen swallowed the lump in her throat. "Then I will find no rest?" she whispered.

Glorfindel turned to face her. Despite the cold wind, she could feel his body heat through her dress. He was there with her, alive – and she found she was glad for it.

"No." He reached out to push a lock out of her eyes, then looked away, to the distant horizon draped in clouds of rain. "No… But you will learn to delay the desire to go. And maybe…" His voice dropped, lower still so that Caladwen had to strain her ears to hear it. "Maybe you will find something worth living for."

And in that instant, wrapped in his warmth and his presence, Caladwen saw a glimpse of hope for her future. It was but a spark, a possibility of a life not without suffering, but with a distraction from her grief that would make it more bearable – almost happy. Caladwen smiled. Yes, she would be content with that.


	4. Lessons In Duty

A Christmas gift for Mirach.

* * *

- Lessons In Duty -

Late… He was late. Glorfindel walked faster; he should not have dallied, and taken the time to return earlier. The disgusted looks on the servants' faces told him as much, along with the trail of mud and blood he was leaving in his wake. By now, his smell and the state of his clothing should have dissipated any romantic illusions they could have had about his race, he thought wryly.

Outside the clamor was growing louder, more enthusiastic, and Glorfindel hurried, pausing only for a second before the doors to adjust his tunic – not that he could do much about the ripped sleeve and the splatter of blood – but an effort was never wasted. Then he pushed the doors, squinting to let his eyes adjust to the bright sunshine, and stepped outside.

The acclamations assaulted him from every direction; the crowd gathered in the courtyard was truly immense, people massing between the parapets of stone and craning their necks to get a better view. He spotted Erestor and hurried over.

The advisor glared at him. "You are late," he hissed, nodding towards the dais where Aragorn stood before Mithrandir, ready to be crowned King. His eyes widened in horror. "And is that… blood? Stars, Glorfindel, did you not have the decency to change?"

"Obviously not," Glorfindel had wanted to snap in reply, but from the other side of the aisle, Elrond's reproachful stare pinned his tongue to its place.

Indeed, Glorfindel was beginning to grasp the extent of the disaster. The day was warm, and what insects happened to be flying over the ceremony did not fail to smell the feast his tunic offered. In a matter of minutes, a small cloud was buzzing happily around him, forcing Erestor to retreat to the other side of the twins, who seemed to mind his state less than he.

Even less sensitive mortals to his other side seemed to be offended by the smell and drew further, shuffling away in their most polite manner; Glorfindel scowled.

Maybe riding out to hunt whatever orcs still hid in the lands neighboring the city had been a mistake. This day was not his but Estel's; the long-awaited and well-deserved moment of glory in their friend and protégé's life. The ceremony was splendid indeed, intended to impress the many attendees. Princes, lords and simple commoners would judge the King by this day, and remember what? A foul-smelling fool besmirching the King's immaculate carpets and halls.

Glorfindel felt a blush creep up his neck. Once again he had only listened to that overgrown sense of duty Erestor had so often called pig-headedness, and shamed his friends. Maybe if he left?… He took a step back, willing the crowd to close on him and hide him from view.

* * *

Aragorn walked down the aisle. The crown was an unusual weight on his head, one he would have to get accustomed to. Beside him, Arwen was holding his arm and smiling shyly at the cheering crowd. He knew she feared that the people of Gondor would have trouble accepting an elven Queen, but as he marveled once again at her beauty and grace, he wondered: how could they not love her? He met her eyes and she blushed; he leaned in for a kiss, earning whistles and shouts of joy from his subjects.

Long had he awaited this day, and here he was, after years of wandering the wilderness with no true anchor and too many names; now the prophesy was accomplished, the weight of his heritage finally lifted off his shoulders.

How he had feared, back then, that each battle would be his last, that he would perish for his own foolishness and the hopes of his people would remain deceived… Each fight, each quest had been a step he took towards his prophesized future, one he had not chosen but learnt to long for. And finally the day had come when everyone's dreams had come true. Now he could be happy as well.

He grinned as he embraced Elrond, the man he had called Father as long as he could remember, the one who had raised him and protected him as his own flesh and blood. He greeted Faramir and the Lady Éowyn, noting how she seemed to lean towards the young Steward; a sign of attraction clearly welcomed by the man. So she, too, had found the happiness she deserved.

Next came Éomer, his brother in arms and a precious ally for the years to come. Old alliances had to be reforged, new ones strengthened; Rohan and Gondor, side by side would see to it.

Erestor welcomed his embrace with a wry smile, and Aragorn rejoiced that the advisor had accepted to be parted from the house he so seldom left to be present at his coronation. "Welcome to Gondor, my friend," he spoke in elvish.

His brothers greeted him with a playful pat on the back, not heeding the crown that now adorned his forehead, and he grinned at their apparent irreverence. They would always see him as little Estel, a boy they protected and played with. Now that boy had taken a liking to shiny crowns and swords, and they were indulging his fancy. Aragorn smiled: it was good to know that some things would never change. Speaking of which…

"Glorfindel!"

The Chief of Guards turned around, and Aragorn had to resist the urge to laugh at his sour face.

"Leaving already?" he teased.

"Mumble-mumble-goingtochange-mumble," came the reply.

Aragorn sensed that it was not all jokes for the ancient warrior. Glorfindel seemed distinctly uncomfortable, his stance rigid and eyes challenging, and Aragorn understood why when he saw the people around him try to distance themselves from the blood-smeared elf. Anger rose in his chest; they did not, could not understand who and _what_ Glorfindel was; even most elves never had. And he would not have his friend, his hero so shamed because of their ignorance.

He opened his arms and pulled his old friend into a tight embrace.

For each person he had ever met had taught him something. There had been love and affection, showered upon him by Elrond and his mother. They had dried his tears and soothed his fears, and supported him through the difficult choices he had had to make. There had been wisdom, offered in advice by Erestor, repeated patiently until he understood; to this day he believed that there was nothing the advisor did not know. There had been skill with a weapon, shown – and sometimes playfully beaten into him, when he was showing overconfidence in his prowess – by his brothers.

And there had been duty.

It had been Glorfindel who, as he watched his first horse agonize from a broken leg after a carefree expedition into the forest, had forced his hand to seize a blade and end the animal's suffering. It had been Glorfindel who had told the spoiled boy he used to be that birthdays and Yules came second to the threat of orcs at their borders. It had been Glorfindel who had taught him that beside rights and privileges there were duties, harsh and demanding, and sacred. For many of such lessons the Chief of Guards had endured a bitter reprimand from Elrond, but his reply had never varied: "He will be King. He must know his duty."

Now he was that King, and he remembered those words.

He let go of Glorfindel and, in the stunned silence that descended upon the courtyard, he lay a hand on his friend's shoulder.

"Do invite me, next time," he said.


End file.
